Kinship
by themysteryvanishing
Summary: Myka is undergoing cancer treatment and needs a little love. Set after season 4 and, ah, ignores season 5.
1. Chapter 1

_Next of kin?_

Whose name could've even merited a place on that little black line? Her sister Tracy, who would soon be busy giving birth to a niece or nephew whom Myka might not ever get to meet? Her father, who she'd only in the last couple years considered forgiving, whose name still, after all these years, made her gut lurch with fear? Her mother, who didn't dare stand between Warren and Myka, but dutifully remained silent and perhaps unwittingly exchanged her daughter's trust for upheld vows? If not them, if not Pete, her full-time partner and part-time confidant, if not any of her warehouse family, then who? It was easier to leave that line blank, Myka knew. Except maybe…

_It's just something I have to do._

Helena had said it far more eloquently, Myka knew as she'd handwaved Artie back into the Warehouse and held the last of herself together before turning away from Pete as she got in the car, but the underpinnings were there, and that's what mattered most. That's what this was. A thing. Myka's thing. That she had to do, whether she wanted to or not. It was hers, and no one else's. Because keeping her private life private had always felt necessary, for her safety, her personal comfort…for, well, _everyone's_ comfort, really.

She'd made the decision from the moment she'd processed the doctor's words (though admittedly, that might have been the second or third time he'd actually said them). It would be easier not to tell anyone.

People say you shouldn't carry that sort of burden, shouldn't let it eat at you and leave you an empty shell. But it wasn't really a burden at all, was it?

Because she was already alone. Had been, for years.

She had woken to her own alarm every morning since first grade, ever since her father had eaten the bagel she'd wanted one summer morning because Myka hadn't gotten up early enough. She had driven herself to school and work with the car she paid for, on time every day, because she loved the feeling of a perfect attendance record. She had made herself into the Secret Service agent she wanted to be, by-the-book, with color-coded security details and spotless psych evals, but with just enough heart to still be approachable, well-liked. Nobody had ever needed to do anything for her.

And that was how she preferred it, because, like her father had told that morning in the summer before the first grade as he brushed the remnants of her favorite bagel off his chin, that's the way it was.

_Tell people about your pain and they won't let you move two inches in any direction by yourself anymore. That, or they take two steps back from you and keep going, and that's the last you see of them. Never tell them, and everything stays the same, the way it's always been, and you don't lose much of anything. Or do you?_

Myka stared at the ceiling, her expression unreadable, from her place on the hospital bed. She inhaled as deeply as she could, fought the lancing pain in her gut, until she was convinced she could feel the air hit the base of her lungs. She found herself remembering.

She remembered wanting to be a writer, wondered if that would make her father happy. Wondered if it would make _herself_ happy. She remembered one afternoon in a high school literature class, and the sheet the teacher had handed out: the last words of great authors. Had they been happy?

She blinked and saw the handout in her mind, saw the opening Whitman quote in her mind as clearly as she saw the cracks in the ceiling tile above her. A person's last words, Whitman had said, were…_valuable beyond measure to confirm and endorse the varied train, facts, theories and faith of the whole preceding life._

She scrolled through the page in her mind, wondered if the whole reason she was remembering this now was because—

Ah, yes. The final words of H.G. Wells:

_Go away…I'm alright._

Myka blinked and almost smiled.

_Yes, you are._

And at once, Myka understood. In ways she could not have foreseen in Yellowstone, or London, or the Warehouse, or…

Sometimes it was easier to say nothing for everyone else's sake and sanity. Because sometimes, less is more when more threatens to become too much.

So Myka had signed the consent form, had scribbled the pseudonym onto the black line, because if anyone could ever truly understand, it was the woman who was hundreds of miles away from here, the woman who'd carried her own share of burdens, had been the only one to help herself because that's the way it was, had always been. Because Helena had understood—nearly at the cost of everyone—a thing or two about the end of oneself.

And because Myka knew, deep down, beneath the wall she'd put up against her father's lack of empathy, all people really needed was a little compassion.

She didn't have to look to know that the doctor was on the phone with her next of kin, but she pushed against the burn buried deep in her muscles to look out the door of her room. It was just something she had to do.

She was too tired to smile, but it didn't matter. This wasn't the end, after all.

Helena would be here soon.

And Myka was going to be alright.


	2. Chapter 2

"You—you came back."

It started off as a question, it seemed to Helena, but Myka finished it as a statement.

"I wanted you to know…you're not alone, Myka."

For anyone else, Helena knew, Myka would have looked away, sought solace in nonchalance, or retreated behind the wall that had protected her all these years. Instead she inclined her head, met Helena's gaze fully, in earnest.

Helena had missed those eyes. "Myka I'm…I'm sorry."

"Wh—Helena, why on earth would you say that?" Myka was tired, but managed to tug a small smile across her lips. "You didn't give me cancer. This is…it's just…"

"I should've," Helena sniffed and ran a hand through her hair in an attempt to compose herself. "I _should_ _have_ been here sooner."

Myka shook her head slightly and studied Helena's features in the soft light of South Dakota's mid-afternoon sun that filtered through the windows. The room hummed, ever-silent spaces buzzing with the white noise of the hospital.

"Y'know…a wise and slightly psychotic woman once wrote that we are all kept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity, and to not walk away from our truths," she said quietly, watching as Helena's brow knitted together before she looked up. "This is my truth, Helena. Do I wish you could tell me everything will be alright? Of course—"

"But you would never believe me," Helena finished with a downward glance that brought a curtain of dark hair across her face.

Myka exhaled a pent-up sigh and her chin quivered. "_You_…came back." Her voice was tight in her throat, her eyes burned, and she was working hard to fight the next wave of nausea, but Myka waited until Helena had pushed her away and met her gaze again. The woman looked older somehow, as if the last few minutes had brought her 147 years up to speed. They had all and none of the time in the world.

"Yes. I came back." Helena finally smiled.

Myka's expression softened and her heart ached. "Thank you."


End file.
